I Didn’t Know I Was A Squirter

It was just another typical Wednesday night. There I was, three shots and two mixed drinks later, coming into my own. Dressed in yet another all black ensemble, I made a tequila fueled scan across the room for any available men I could use for the night. The selection was slim. I’ll save this quest for another night, I thought and then threw back another free shot.

Up to this point I’d consider myself pretty sexually accomplished. Although not particularly adventurous in the bedroom, I’ve seen a dick or two or twenty in my lifetime. I’ve had good sex, great sex, and oh-god-is-he-almost-done-already sex. I know what turns me on, what my climax is like, and how to help the poor guy fumbling around down there get me off. Well, that’s what I thought until later that night.

I’d always thought it was complete and utter bullshit. But it turns out it’s true what they say, the whole “you find what you’re looking for when you stop searching” cliché. Because as soon as I’d given up all hope on pencilling in a dick appointment for the night, there he was. He’s probably not my knight in shining armor. He’s definitely not my one true love. He was though, exactly what I needed. My very own “great awakening.”

He approached me as I was at the bar, about to order my last vodka water (until the next change of location). He was tall, attractive, and didn’t appear to have any horrendous personality traits. This ~mystery man~ told my friends and I that someone in his group ordered bottle service that they were “trying to get rid of.” Even though I saw right through this thinly veiled line, he didn’t seem like a complete rapist and I’m not one to turn down free alcohol, so I accepted the offer. A few poorly ratio-ed vodka crans, and several slurred conversations later, I had a feeling I may be getting an appointment in after all.

And I was right. Fast forward an hour, and there we were back at his place. As we drunkenly attempted unhooking and unbuttoning, I readied myself for the usual hookup routine: catch a finger or two, maybe give a slight handy, put a condom on, then roll around until the job is done and/or the first person passes out. After switching positions a few times, he started doing something, different. He completely flipped the script and went back to fingering me. I figured this was some sort of compensation for perhaps, a whiskey dick, and the poor guy just didn’t want to make me feel inadequate. The method was a little middle school, but I was fine with it. I laid there as he kept at it, with much more enthusiasm then I expected. Before I knew it he was really in there, like really in there. I didn’t even realize what was going on as he started going at a hyper speed I didn’t even know was physically possible. It was like getting fingered by The Flash.

And that’s when it happened. I was speechless. I, the experienced one, just had a new experience. I had just squirted. I didn’t even realize what had happened until it was all too late. Even I, the hoe supreme, sat there in disbelief. On the other hand, he looked back at me with an accomplished grin. He noticed my horrified look and said, “that’s not going to weird you out is it? It shouldn’t, it’s completely natural.” This guy makes girls squirt. He was so responsive with his reply I knew that couldn’t have been the first time this had happened to him. It was like, his thing.

He was a sex magician, and he had just pulled out his most impressive party trick. I don’t know how one learns such a skill. Is it a Mister Miyagi situation? Did he have a squirt mentor? Will this ever happen to me again? I may never know. Even if I never see him again, I am forever grateful (and still slightly terrified) to have experienced that magical sleight of hand.

Image via Shutterstock

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